You are There, Not Here
by RockinJanelle
Summary: Somehow, they wound up here. On one end, there was John Watson. On the other, there was Sherlock Holmes. But where was "here" exactly? Sherlock/John. Oneshot. PG.


**Title: **"You are There, Not Here"  
><strong>Pairing: <strong>_Sherlock/John  
><em>**TV Show: **_BBC Sherlock  
><em>**Word Count: **3,569  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG  
><em><strong><br>A/N: **_Something to think about, I suppose. This is kind of what I think would happen if John and Sherlock...died. Call it weird, but I think it's possible, idk. LOL I'm not an expert in death or anything.

Also, something to ponder: was a part of this romantic? Oooh, I'm messing up your mind!

Enjoy!_**  
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**x x x x x x x x x x**

Somehow, they wound up here. On one end, there was John Watson. On the other, there was Sherlock Holmes. Where was "here" exactly? John Watson didn't know. Sherlock Holmes didn't know. They speculated about where they were, how they got there, and when did they arrive at this place. But there was no answer. So they agreed to call it the "afterlife". Was it Heaven? Hell? Purgatory? Whatever it was, it was bright and had nothing to offer. It was just a bright, white room, filled with three worlds.

There was one for John Watson. And there was one for Sherlock Holmes.

But they didn't worry about that the moment they arrived. They wanted to know how they got there. Was it a gunshot that killed them? No, Sherlock thought. That would've been too easy, especially when you could dodge a bullet with the right precision. Could it have been poison? No, thought John. He was not that careless to risk his life over a poisonous pill (or was it? John found it familiar that he was thinking of poison). They both closed their eyes and saw a bright light. Was their death quick? Or had the darkness been too blinding for both of them?

John thought about who he was with the moment he died, and so did Sherlock. They couldn't figure out the mystery, as if someone was keeping it all a secret. John Watson saw a tall man, curled hair, paled complexion, and had a mysterious air around him. Sherlock Holmes saw a small man, but one that was strong, well-built, vulnerable at certain points. But neither one could place a name. They knew they were close to each other, but how close? The light behind their eyes flashed many memories, ones where they talked, held and protected the other. John could hear the deep voice of his companion. Sherlock could hear a worried tone behind his.

But neither one had a name. Whenever they screamed for someone, it would be empty air. So they were brought back to their resting place, wherever it was. It was dark, then a bright flash of light. Sherlock saw John; John saw Sherlock. They shared a moment, whatever that moment was. Perhaps it was romantic—it was plausible. Perhaps one blamed the other—it was impossible. Perhaps one tried to save the other—it was possible. Neither one knew the full story, so they opened their eyes and saw their worlds.

John Watson was alone. Sherlock Holmes was alone. But they were back-to-back, almost touching. They didn't feel the other's presence. They just saw their worlds. John figured it was their "Heaven"; Sherlock found it to be their "wish". Neither one thought to look around this white light. All they had was their mind, and all they could do was think. They just wanted to think, just for however long Time would give them. John wanted to waste no time on thinking; Sherlock had all the time in the Universe, in the palm of his hand.

They both blinked and watched their worlds move about.

**x x x x x x x x x x**

Which one got their first? John thought this, so did Sherlock. Obviously their companion travelled with them, because there was no escaping from this bright light, whatever it was. Who died first? Was it John? Maybe it was Sherlock? Or maybe they had arrived there at the same time, at the exact same moment. They don't recall arriving at all. They were just there, wondering, pondering, and thinking. And it felt natural. So they questioned nothing and went with whatever was there. Nothing was trusted, but in life they trusted nothing.

John Watson was the first to look into his world, his "Heaven". He didn't trust the world, though. He trusted the white room, wherever they were, but not the world. He called it the window into his soul, because he was looking through the looking glass. He wouldn't dare go inside without knowing it was safe.

Everyone expected chaos and war in his afterlife. But there was a calming tide against the rocks, a small beach that he had not laid eyes on since he was a child. It was his childhood home. There were no noises that startled him, nor were there any enemies chasing after him because he was considered a bad guy. No, there was the sea air swirling around his body, and as he breathed in, he could smell the ocean waters blend with peace.

He would not be alone in this world, this fantasy. His family would be inside the house. His mother would be over the stove, cooking away his little cookies that she always made him, whenever she had the ingredients. They were always chocolate chip (they were his favorites). His sister would be inside, helping his mother make them, but only because she would try to get the first cookie before him. Father would be picking away at the crops just above the coast line, in the small patch of grass underneath the growing tree next to the house. John saw his father wipe away the beads of sweat slowly coming down his forehead while he worked under the beating sun (a marvel, especially when it rained a lot).

And it was the first time in ages that he saw his father smile. He could hear his sister laughing inside the house, carrying on with his mother as they cooked the small treats for everyone, especially John. It made his heart swell, made him want everything from his childhood to come back. He took a step forward toward the world and wondered if he wanted all this. He had not seen his parents for years, and his sister was healthy and happy all over again. The last time he saw his parents, they were going under. And his sister was going under, in one way or another.

How he wished to run to all of them and hold them close, even if his sister was not there. He wanted her there, oh how he wanted her there. John knew his sister would miss him, when he was in this new world. She would be stuck in another Universe, at the same time, wallowing in her despair, desperately trying to bring him back. But he didn't want to be brought back, not after seeing what was inside the window.

He wanted to wrap his arms around his mother and smell the fresh scent of oranges run through her hair. He wanted to hear her lovely voice (it sounded like an angel) hum his favorite tune from when he was a child. He especially wanted to wake up one morning and have her there, smiling down at the stove while she cooked him breakfast, calling it a good morning every day. He then wanted to feel his father's love again, to go out and play games with his father and run around like a senseless child. He wanted to learn from his father. He wanted to see his smile up close and personal, and just notice how it shined like the sun when it was raining.

But then John Watson stopped before he entered the world. It all seemed perfect. It was his dream to have peace and normality brought back into his life again. And oh, how he craved to be back with his parents, and to hear his lovely sister be healthy again. He wanted everything to be the way it was, the way it used to be.

But his life used to be perfect.

And he had already had normality once.

Something was missing.

So he started to look beyond the glass and into the surrounding white light.

x x x x x x x x x x

Sherlock Holmes, on the other hand, looked into his frame of mind. He did not stop thinking, not for one moment, and felt his eyes flittering back and forth between walls. There were mirrors and mirrors filled with images of this world, for it went on for eternity. There was no end in sight where he wanted to be. There it was, all laid out for him, all that he could want and feel within two moments. One could call it a library, but he thought of it as a catalogue. There on the white slabs were bodies piled high toward the ceiling, and on the ground there was nothing but a sea of paper grossly moving about.

It was his work, those that he had solved when he was alive and those he never dreamed of surfacing when alive.

There was a slight map of the place next to him on the wall, just adjacent to the morgue. He took one look and already memorized where the files of each person were and where he could find the endless supply of riding crops. There was no one to contaminate his experiments, no annoying forensics team trying to clean the mess as soon as possible without examining all the details, no policemen hounding over the body, ready for their food to be delivered in words. No, he was all alone, all by himself in the catalogue of bodies and cases.

Oh how he dreamed to do endless experiments! He wished for a life like this, where he would not be constantly bored. His mind would always have something to do, something to fulfill and please. He saw the finer things in life and death: the blood splatter, how that man was a bicyclist and was training for a race, how that woman in the far corner slapped her child when she first birthed him, the callous fingertips in the jar, the carpal tunneled wrist, the injuries, the trauma, the way each died and lived in a blink of an eye. It was the beautiful world he envisioned.

He needed no family. Granted, his brother would find a body for him when he was younger so he could figure out how long an eye could burn under the sun, but there was no need for a brother in this world. Not when he did not care for this kind of work. Sherlock did not wish for his mother, either. He had a bond with her—perhaps it was love, but he felt no compassion with her—but that was all. He never connected with her or told her what he enjoyed doing. She had an inkling, but he spoiled her with lies. She would not understand his motivation to keep busy, anyway; she was like his brother.

When he scanned more of the place, more of his dream, he saw books. He never really liked reading, partly because he could open the book and know who had done what by the end of the first chapter. But there must've been a reason that the books were there. Perhaps it was to stimulate his mind, thinking it could very well break at any moment and he'd go insane. Or maybe it was part of some cases where the characters in the book needed their mystery solved as well as those on the tables. He wanted to know. He wanted to be right.

He needed to know. So he stepped toward his window. Everything looked grand. The air couldn't have been more perfect, the lighting was fantastic (he could examine the bodies without any other light), and the silence was golden. All he cared about was the work, that's all he wanted to encompass his life. He wanted the work to take over and forever cloud his mind. He wanted to dive into the mysteries and catch it under the magnifying glass. He wanted to know more about the people on the table and call them his friend.

But he moved no more than that small step. He was afraid of what would happen if he crossed over that bridge into the other side. Would there be a way back? Why would he need a way back? Everything he ever wanted was right there in front of him, right under his nose. He wanted to go inside and be with his bodies. Something was holding him back, though, and for once, it was not someone. It was his mind, his precious mind. His mind wanted it all and more, but it wasn't what it needed. It had enough of that.

It needed someone, that companion that travelled with Sherlock Holmes. He was the one that Sherlock's mind needed. There was no question about it, no mystery clouding the evidence. It was right on its own table, looking up through a jar and staring right at Sherlock. The companion wasn't there, and the world looked a bit…dull.

So Sherlock took a step back.

And he, too, started to look at the white walls.

x x x x x x x x x x

Now, both did not move from their spots, but they did look around. They could not see the other from their views, because they never looked in the same direction. Direction had no meaning in this place, but they were never looking at the same thing at the same time. Sherlock Holmes was too busy investigating the "afterlife", and John Watson was terrified of what his life beyond life was to become. All they knew was that there was something out there, something they had to find.

John wanted to scream for someone to help, but when he opened his mouth, it was nothing but silence. When Sherlock spoke, it echoed for miles and miles. John heard nothing but the air surrounding him. They knew not of the other, how they were together and inseparable. They were tied together and bound to each other in some form of manner. Perhaps they were in a romantic relationship and had gone beyond the word "friendship" at some point in life. But they did not think about that. They only thought about what "life" held before death.

Then, something happened. They did not go back to life—no, they were stuck in this white room. But something happened that neither one suspected. A sudden urge to look in one direction had occurred. Some force pulled them to one side of the room, whatever side it was. Direction had no meaning—they could've been looking north, south, left, right, up, down, whatever. But they were looking at one thing, together, examining whatever it was that was standing there, holding its sign. They did not look right away, but they felt someone or something pulling them there.

John was afraid; Sherlock was intrigued. John did not want to look at the thing. He was afraid that this thing, whatever it was, was going to take him somewhere he did not want to go. Was this force telling him to regret not choosing that perfect world? But it was not perfect, John thought—it had a flaw. Sherlock wanted to turn around and see whatever it was that had the answer to his problem, his only problem. He wanted to know what he was about to witness and carefully analyze whatever it was that was standing in his way.

So they both turned their heads at the same time and looked into a window. It was the third world.

They had forgotten about their world, the world that they created when they were alive. It was not imagined, it was very much real. People came and went in their world, but no one understood them, not when they were alive, and most certainly not when they were stuck in the white room. But they stared out into this new world that expanded their horizons, the one that brought everything together and made sense. It was the world they made their own.

And when they looked out, after just a tiny moment (but a moment lasted for a long time), they felt the other. Something told them that there was another life form there. Their backs brushed against each other, their bodies appeared in their field of visions, and they were not alone anymore. Their white world was now shared, and both turned around to see their companion for what felt like the first time. But they felt they knew each other for so long, especially when their memories were nothing but the other.

John looked up at the man; Sherlock looked down. Sherlock Holmes did not care to remember names, not when they were useless. But this man, he always knew his name. How did he manage to forget? What was John's excuse for forgetting this man, especially his name? John Watson owed this man everything, because he saved him from a boring life. He was the reason everything in life was brighter.

So they stood face-to-face, their backs facing their perfect worlds, the ones they deemed "flawed" right from the start. Sherlock could not believe that his doctor was right beside him, after all this time. How did he not see the signs? John was amazed that his friend, his colleague, whatever he was deemed in this life, was standing there with him. He had no words to express the feelings he felt for this moment. But he knew everything felt right, and Sherlock felt the same.

What did they want to say to each other? How much their presence was missed? How their lives were dull while standing there, looking into their own worlds, into their own windows? There were no words for the other; they just stared into the eyes of their partner and longed for this moment to last for a long time (and for a long time it did). They could hear the background noises come from the third world, how it all seemed so familiar to them. The air around them had a slight breeze, with the busy street creating life around their solemnity. And when the air went silent, Sherlock was the first to speak.

"John," he said. But it was not a firm word that he spoke. It was breathless, a whimsical word that could do nothing but roll off his tongue now. It was though this one word, this one name had been bottled up for years in Sherlock's throat, but he couldn't say it, even though he wanted to give up his life just to say this one name.

"Sherlock," John said. And Sherlock had expected his tone to be uplifting, to be relieved that there was his companion, the one he called a friend, partner, brother, whatever term that was associated with their relationship. He was right; he was always right. John couldn't help it. And both smiled at the same time, knowing that they were both there, both standing right beside the other, always and forever. Eternity would not split them apart. There would be no point.

They both turned to the third world again and stared out at the environment. Sherlock was the first one to speak. "Are you sure about this?" John had no question in his mind—his thoughts were blissful.

And Sherlock was the same way. He did not know why he questioned it; he just did. "I'm ready when you are," replied John. There would be no other answer to that question, not to Sherlock, not to John. And when they turned back to face each other, they knew that their answer would be enough.

Sherlock felt everything come into place, where time and space did not matter. John felt it, too. At this one moment, they felt as connected as they ever would, and perhaps they would never feel this way again. And perhaps they would. But at that moment, everything came together for both of them, and oh, how they wanted to let this moment ride out and last for as long as they could. But, at some point, the moment had to cease, and they had to go into their world, the one they both owned. And when the moment parted, they were ready.

They faced their world head on. They were not afraid of what was going to happen, what was going to be on the other side. They knew what was there and what was not. Nothing could stop them and everything could ruin them. But they knew they would manage somehow, someway, because they were together again, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. And they were inseparable. They were bonded through sheer force and magnitude, and perhaps they were bonded in more ways than one, physical and emotional. They would hold onto each other, protect the other in every way, shape, and form. They would not let go of each other until they were both inside the window looking out, then finally never turning back.

Sherlock and John would not regret their decision. Not one thought about a regret passed their mind, and it would never cross their mind. John was at peace and living with his family; Sherlock was left with the greatest mystery he could have, and had to live with it for the rest of time. And he was alright with that; so was John. They both looked at the door ahead of them and both said the same thing aloud, still holding onto what was most important to them, what they wanted Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, or whatever the afterlife they had to live in granted them.

"I'm home."

And they both opened the door._  
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End file.
